


one thing i won't question

by Y_ellow



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Size Kink, Spideypool Bingo 2020, forehead kiss, grumpy Peter, soft bois are soft, vaguely set in the MCU, with grad student Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23796625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow
Summary: Peter relaxes slightly at the familiar stream of nonsensical babble, letting the words wash over him without reading into any of it too much. Really, there are far worse people to wake up to than Deadpool, and even the breaking and entering is more endearing than unsettling, at this point.For the square ‘forehead kiss’ of my Spideypool 2020 Bingo card.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 457
Collections: Spideypool Bingo 2020 Round 2





	one thing i won't question

**Author's Note:**

> Author just really wanted some cuddles so Wade gets some some soft spidey time. 
> 
> Thank you to cheekysstyles, gabby227, and emzilla97 for helping me with the emotional whiplash of tone shifts, and for correcting all of my typos and comma missuses. Any remaining mistakes are mine because I don’t know when to leave well enough alone.

Peter wakes up slowly, haze of exhaustion clouding his thoughts. He burrows deeper into the warmth of his duvet with a groan, nose scrunching and toes curling in discomfort at the slight chill in the air.

This wouldn’t be happening if he were still living in the compound, he thinks petulantly, with Friday to keep everything from temperature to humidity at optimal levels. But Peter had wanted the independence that came with having his own place more than he enjoyed the ease of living in the compound… a decision that seems less and less reasonable with every wasted moment spent commuting.

Keeping his eyes stubbornly closed, Peter tries to chase the feeling of sleep still weighing his limbs down. He’s not willing to acknowledge the world just yet, and especially not the unmistakable sounds of someone rummaging through his first aid supplies.

Even with the boost his powers give him, getting out of bed earlier than he absolutely needs to is a perpetual struggle. Doubly so on nights like tonight, when he’s awake after barely any sleep at all, Spidey-suit still hanging half off his bed where he threw it on his way to dream land after a long patrol. One glance at the alarm-clock on his bedside table shows it blinking steadily closer to the witching hour, to Peter’s chagrin.

Peter rolls onto his back with a tired groan, wanting nothing more than to ignore his unexpected guest and fall back to sleep. Forever. Or at least until his alarm goes off in a few hours, Peter isn’t actually that picky. It may be a weekend, but there’s no rest for the wicked, and his thesis won’t write itself.

An especially loud clang followed by indistinct muttering coming from the general direction of his bathroom urges Peter upright with a heavy sigh. With all the reluctance of a graduate student running a sleep deficit about to take on another project, Peter throws off his blanket and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. A shiver runs up his spine as the cold air hits him, chasing away the last of the drowsiness. He runs hot as a result of the bite, hasn’t slept in anything heavier than a t-shirt and boxers since. Still, the temperature in New York in February, especially at 3am, isn’t exactly balmy.

Peter contemplates the weak light filtering in through his open window blearily. Closing the window shouldn’t be too much to ask for when breaking and entering, right? And yet.

He shuts the window with enough force that it rattles in it’s frame and draws the blinds shut with an equally forceful tug. Still, he doesn’t turn on any of the lights, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness instead. He’s not quite that petty, even if the lack of sleep makes the thought appealing. The hatred Deadpool feels for his looks – and consequently how violent he gets – ranges from a barely noticeable 4 to an all-consuming 11. Middle-of-the-night visits don’t usually coincide with good days.

“What are you doing here, Deadpool?” Peter calls towards the open bathroom, voice still rough with sleep. He runs a hand roughly through his already messy hair, dreading the inevitable. They’re more than just occasional partners these days, but Deadpool has a habit of leaving destruction in his wake without even realizing it, sort of like a cat bringing its owner a live mouse and releasing it in the house.

“Well, I was coming by to check up on your sweet ass, but you looked so _peaceful_ drooling on your pillow that I decided to just make use of your bathroom instead.” For all that the words are cheerful, there’s something dark in the mercenary’s tone that makes the fine hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand up.

Peter’s Spidey-sense may be suspiciously silent around the merc with a mouth these days, but he’s never not armed and he’s _always_ extremely dangerous. Things have a habit of getting bloodier than usual when Deadpool sounds like that, Peter has learned, false cheer hiding bone deep bitterness and an understandable desire to light the whole world on fire.

“Need a hand?” Peter asks lightly, padding slowly across the room to lean against the doorframe until he can just make out his unexpected guest’s silhouette. Peter has to dig the palm of his hand into his eye to chase away the last of the sleep dust, a yawn stretching his jaw wide. Peter squints, trying to make out any details, but even his sharp eyes need a bit more light than what makes it past his blinds. For what it’s worth, Deadpool seems to have all limbs currently intact and attached to his body. 

“Nah,” comes the flippant reply after a beat too long. Peter doesn’t believe the dismissive response in the least, knows Deadpool well enough to imagine the false happy crease of his masked eyes even if he can’t quite make them out in the gloom. Deadpool huffs out a knowing laugh, able to read Peter’s incredulity in the way he crosses his arms and tilts his head, radiating silent judgement. Warmth blooms in Peter’s chest at the sound. How odd it is to be so pleased that someone would know him so well (that _this_ is the someone who knows his every mannierism so well) when he’s spent the majority of his life hiding in one way or another. It’s never stopped being terrifying, even months after first trusting Deadpool with his identity.

“Relax, Webs, it’s all fine. I can practically hear the cogs in your head turning, spinning away like a hamster running on its wheel. Or like a forty-something widow at spin class, trying to regain her youthful figure to lure in husband number three. I’ll be out of your mane in no time.”

Peter relaxes slightly at the familiar stream of nonsensical babble, letting the words wash over him without reading into any of it too much. Really, there are far worse people to wake up to than Deadpool, and even the breaking and entering is more endearing than unsettling, at this point. Deadpool is a friend, maybe even Peter’s best friend, with years of team-ups and unspoken things between them.

And yet, there’s an undercurrent of tension in the air tonight, the coppery tang of blood unmistakeable and heavy on Peter’s tongue. It’s not uncommon for Deadpool to show up injured, not unusual for Peter to wake up to a blood smeared sticky note proclaiming ’Deadpool wus here’. As callous as it makes him feel, Peter is pretty unphased by it all, doesnt even blink when Deadpool loses a limb during fights anymore, has come to associate the smell of blood and gunpowder and sweat with the safety of knowing Deadpool has his back. But tonight, the smell of blood makes Peter uneasy, something in the way Deadpool is acting, in the way he’s holding himself making Peter’s skin _crawl_ and setting him on edge. 

“Is this going to end up like last time?” Peter asks almost plaintively, not quite managing to fight down the shiver of revulsion at the memory. If he thinks about it too long, he can still feel the sewer sludge seeping into his suit, the stench cloying his nostrils and making him gag.

Deadpool chuckles darkly in responce. Neither of them had enjoyed that particular adventure. The hydra goons they where chasing it down had enjoyed it even _less_.

“Nothing like that tonight, Webs. Wanted to ask you something though.” Peter tense up again, not liking the seriousness in Deadpool’s tone. He’s not likely to ever admit it, but Peter would feel _much_ more at ease if Deadpool would try to cop a feel or make some kind of innuendo right about now.

“Can’t it wait until morning?” Peter asks sharply, “Or at least until sometime when you don’t need to break into my apartment?” He can already feel the pounding of a headache building behind his eyes, doesn’t feel patient enough to deal with Deadpool tonight. There’s an art to it, which Peter has perfected after several close encounters with the man’s katanas and guns, learning to sidestep the obvious sore spots and dodge the verbal traps. But dealing with Deadpool skillfully enough to enjoy his company takes more energy than Peter can muster on too little sleep.

The merc shakes his head sharply in the negative, which Peter can just barely make out against the glom, but doesn’t say anything. Peter’s gotten used to non-stop chatter over the years; has come to expect a matching quip or commentary for every little thing going on around them. As appreciative of the silence as some people would be, it just seems _wrong_ to Peter and does nothing but make him suspicious, dark mood souring all the more.

“Is this something I should be putting my suit on to deal with? Will helping you get me in shit with the Avengers?” Peter presses, feeling increasingly frustrated by the lack of response.

“Seriously,” Peter hisses through clenched teeth, when the silence drags on, “either tell me what you came here for or get out, because I would like more than two hours of sleep.”

Deadpool seems to shake off whatever unnatural stillness has taken hold of him at Peter’s admonition. “Shit, sorry, you’re right. This was a bad call, forget I was ever here.”

The scent of blood grows cloyingly strong as Deadpool surges forward, seemingly trying to make up for his previous stillness with a flurry of activity. He presses past Peter, somehow contorting his bulk through the door frame without so much as grazing against him. Peter barely has time to blink, to process the sudden movement before the sound of his window being pried open reaches his ears.

“Wade,” Peter calls out once the surprise has worn off, the sound of his name enough to make the man freeze with one foot already out the window.

He doesn’t turn to face Peter, staying still as a statue and balanced precariously on the windowsill. The light coming in through the open window is bright enough to make out how truly grimy Deadpool’s suit is, riddled with bullet holes and tears and doing nothing to hide the raw and broken skin beneath. Peter sucks in a sharp breath, irritation the unexpected visit elicited draining out of him at the sight, leaving him feeling shaky and incredibly guilty.

There’s drying blood smeared in the shape of a hand across Peter’s windowsill, looking dark and ominous in the low light. Worst of all, the defeated slump of Wade’s shoulders, Peter’s callused words somehow taking a greater toll on him than the pain of his wounds.

Peter licks his lips, suddenly nervous and unsure of himself. “Wade.” He repeats after another beat of tense silence, keeping his tone light and undemanding. “Why did you come here tonight?”

Wade doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t leave either, which Peter takes as permission to press forward, moving to stand beside the man. “Wade,” Peter tries again, “did you come here because you needed help?”

A single sharp gesture of his head, more of a jab than a nod is Peter’s only answer. Peter takes a deep breath, stepping as close to Wade as he can without touching him and lets the silence hang between them, choosing his words carefully. “I’m sorry I wasn’t paying attention. Thank you for coming to see me instead of hurting yourself, Wade.”

Another beat of silence, and whatever fight is left in Wade seems to leech out of him. He all but crumbles, swaying slightly. Peter surges forwards, catching him, mindful of his still healing injuries. Though seeing the man shrug off everything from missing limbs to death over the years has desensitised Peter a bit, he knows better than most how deeply Deadpool still feels, how much pain he hides with crude jokes, how much suffering he deflected with his loud motor-mouth. For a big tough mercenary with a blood drenched past, Wade has the unfortunate habit of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

“Look, why don’t you just go take a shower,” Peter says evenly, arm wrapped securely around the mercenary’s waist, ignoring the way Wade’s shoulders are shaking under his light touch. “I’ll loan you some clean stuff to wear, and you can crash here for the night. Whatever it was, we’ll deal with it in the morning, okay? I’ll help. Whatever you need.” Peter keeps his tone light, undemanding, absentmindedly rubbing comforting circles into the tense muscles under his hands.

“Wow Spidey, how forward of you, and here I thought you would at least take me out to dinner before bedding me.” There’s forced cheerfulness in Wade’s voice, but Peter smiles at the joke all the same. Much better than the silence.

“Shut up and go shower, Wilson,” Peter orders, with a gentle shove in the right direction, shutting the window again decisively. “I’m assuming your injuries will be healed by the time you’re done, yeah?”

“Feeling frisky tonight, Webs? I told you to only call me Mr. Wilson if you wanted to be nasty.” Wade says, sidestepping the matter of his injuries entirely. Peter tries not to let it worry him. No matter how bad they were, or even if Wade had to die a few times on his way, he made it to Peter under his own power, and that has to count for something.

Peter tries not to think about it too closely, or the heavy sadness the thought brings, and instead let’s himself fall face-first back onto his bed with a muffled _umph_. “More like _listless,_ ” he mutters eventually, into the fabric of his pillow.

“Spidey needs his beauty sleep, huh?” Peter can’t help but smile at the teasing note in Wade’s voice, spoken low that Peter wouldn’t have picked it up without enhanced hearing. 

Peter doesn’t bother answering either comment, half asleep already now that he’s horizontal again, a testament to the bone weary exhaustion that’s become his life. He isn’t sure if he imagines the gentle pull of fingers through his hair, as Wade leans over him to rifle through Peter’s dresser for a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Peter doesn’t need to look to know which ones he’s chosen, which says more about the sorry state of his wardrobe than anything about their habits. There’s only one set of sweats and the ratty old Stark Industry t-shirt in there that can accommodate Wade’s bulk, and even then it’s a bit of stretch. Peter isn’t small for a guy, is right about average in terms of height and definitely more muscular than most, but Deadpool is just _so_ much larger than him, nothing but hard muscle and broad shoulders.

The sound of the shower shutting off pulls Peter out of his dose, the sound of bare feet moments later prompting him to shuffle aside inelegantly, making room for Wade’s broad frame in his bed. It’s a tight squeeze, but there’s definitely a few extra inches of space between them – more than there would be if they were both sprawled out comfortably. Peter shuffles around until he can tilt his head to peer at the merc, perched precariously on the very edge of the bed with tension still clear in the ridged line of his back. The low light of false-dawn is bright enough for Peter to see the patch of heavily scared skin between his borrowed t-shirt and the edge of Deadpool’s mask. They’re pressed together so closely that Peter could just about count the frayed threads around a jagged tear in the mask, if he wanted to. 

“You gonna take the mask off Wade? It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Peter whispers.

Peter’s never really pressed about Wade staying masked around him, knows how much the other man hates being seen, choosing to appreciate the quiet moments when they both feel comfortable enough to take off their masks and Peter can look into blue eyes without barriers. But somehow, it doesn’t seem right for three am when they’re both in his bed.

“You’re already seeing a whole lot more of me than usual.” Wade replies mulishly. It’s true enough, even if the reminder doesn’t move Peter tonight. Between the two of them, Peter has always been the more stubborn. 

Freeing one arm from the warm embrace of the blanket, Peter reaches up to hook one finger under the edge of Wade’s mask, tugging lightly. Wade tenses noticeable at the feeling of Peter’s hand brushing against the bare skin of his neck, but he doesn’t pull away. Peter waits, smiling to himself when Wade relents and huffs out a terse “Fine.”

Gently, Peter pulls the mask off and tosses it aside with a flourish, in the general direction of his own suit. Wordlessly, the shuffle around and rearrange their limbs until Wade is facing Peter. There’s an unhappy tilt to his mouth, lips pinched tightly together. It’s almost enough to make Peter feel bad about insisting. Almost, but not quite, because seeing Wade unmasked is enough to send a tendril of heat pooling in Peter’s gut. The scars have never made him ugly, in Peter’s eyes, only adding to the sharp jut of his cheekbones, the strong arch of his hairless brow.

“Happy?” Wade asks, sarcasm all but dripping from the word. “ _Ecstatic,_ ” Peter mumbles back, equally sarcastically.

A beat and they’re both laughing, breaths mingling as they press closer together on Peter’s small bed. It takes him by surprise when Wade stops laughing and speaks, dark eyes serious and glistening alarmingly. Peter’s never been great at dealing with people who are crying.

“You make things better. Even when you don’t. You make things better just by being you.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that, isn’t sure that there’s even an appropriate response at all, so he just shuffles shifts and hugs the shaking mess that is Wade Wilson for all he’s worth, holding the larger man tightly as he falls apart. They’re twined together so closely that Peter barely needs to stretch to gently kiss Wade on the forehead, not sure exactly why he feels the need to do so, but wanting desperately to comfort the other man.

“Go to sleep, Wade.” Peter whispers, knowing exactly how draining it is to have a good cry. Wade shuffles closer and buries his face in Peter’s neck with a content little sigh, inhaling his scent deeply. There’s something inherently sweet in how much trust the move betrays, even more so that letting Peter take off his mask.

They both run hot enough that the air between them is toasty, making their little nest extra cozy. It’s easy for Peter to close his eyes and ignore the rest of the world like this, tangled together under the sheets.

Peter falls asleep with his arms curled possessively around Wade, feeling the weight of him with every breath. It’s a nicer feeling than Peter can ever hope to describe.

\\\//

Peter wakes up slowly, haze of exhaustion clouding his thoughts. He burrows deeper into the warmth of his duvet with a happy sigh, breathing in the sweet smell of pancakes and syrup. He stretches languidly, relishing in the feeling of his shoulders popping, toes curling in delight at the sensation.

Eventually, the need to pee wins out and Peter stumbles from his bed, eyes still at half mast, making his way towards the bathroom more by memory than sight. There’s a crumpled red suit Peter doesn’t remember tossing there in one corner, but he doesn’t give it a second thought as he goes through his morning absolutions. What’s the point of living alone if you aren’t going to be at least a little messy anyways?

Peter steps back out into the main living space of the apartment, intent on getting himself a nice cup of coffee to start the morning off right, and has to freeze in his tracks. Memories of the night before and of his unexpected guest –of cuddling Deadpool, of falling asleep with the man in his arms– hit Peter like a sledgehammer. 

Still, it takes an embarrassingly long moment for Peter’s sleep addled brain to process what he’s seeing. 

All 210 pounds of scarred muscle that make up Deadpool are puttering around the kitchen, hips swaying to a beat only he can hear and looking far too indecent for a Sunday morning. Peter’s borrowed clothes are absurdly tight on him, the straining fabric only enhancing how broad his shoulders are and doing nothing to hide the rippling muscles of his back and abs as he dances.

All of a sudden, Peter’s mouth is watering, and it doesn’t seem to have a whole lot to do with the delicious smell emanating from the stovetop. 

“Hey there sleepy head! We were starting to wonder if you would sleep forever, but I guess you just reaaaaally needed your beauty sleep. You sure got that one right, he’s cute as a button!” Surprisingly enough, Wade hasn’t put his mask back on, so Peter can clearly see how the scar tissue around his mouth pulls and bunches as he grins brightly.

“Earth to Petey-pie, don’t get too lost in that noggin of yours, we might get mad if you ignore us for much longer. Penny for your thoughts?” Peter blinks, shakes his head, and returns Wade’s grin with one of his own.

“I’m thinking I might like you better if we slept together,” Peter says, matter of fact, as he moves to lean against the counter in front of Wade.

“Oh Spider-babe, we already did that!” Wade crows, seemingly delighted to tease Peter about it.

“Mhh guess so. Nothing to it I guess,” Peter says with a shrug. Without giving either of them time to overthink it, Peter darts forwards, stretching up on his tippy toes to pull Wade down halfway to meet him in a searing kiss.

Wade doesn’t take long to get with the program, licking his way into Peter’s mouth with a sound that _does_ things to Peter. Wade kisses like he fights, turns out. Messy and dirty and without a shred of caution, all in. Wade’s ungloved hands fly up to cradle Peter’s head, the tenderness of the move at odds with how gruff and crude he usually acts making Peter weak at the knees.

Peter loops his hands reflexively around Wade’s neck, feeling the slight tremors in his back from hunching over, and doesn’t fight the shiver that wracks up his spine at feeling so _small_ , curved up into Wade’s protective embrace, boxed in by his body. Wade seems perfectly content to stay hunched over, even if it can’t be comfortable, so Peter takes it upon himself to hop up and wrap his legs around Wade’s hips, trusting the larger man to support his weight. Wade groans into his mouth as Peter grinds against him, large hands inching up from Peter’s thighs to grope at his butt.

The pancakes don’t get eaten until long after they’ve gone cold, but they’re still the best thing Peter has ever tasted, between maple syrup flavored kisses.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought in a comment!


End file.
